‘No, he pretty much keeps himself to himself,’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tight around her. She looked exhausted.
‘Where did you meet?’ Misha asked.
‘At the Imperial on Kirpichny. It’s a nightclub. He promised we would be moving to a new apartment … That doesn’t look like it will be happening any time soon now.’
Misha felt sorry for her. He guessed she had no part in this but had been caught up in it anyway.
They fell silent. Misha looked around the room. On the coffee table, next to a half-empty cup of cold tea, stood a photograph in a metal frame of three people standing in front of a fountain smiling broadly at the camera. Ivan recognised the girlfriend immediately, looking a lot happier than she did at that moment, with two men standing either side of her. The girlfriend caught him looking at the photo and picked it up.
‘This is Erik,’ she said, pointing at the man on the right.
‘And who is this?’ said Ivan, indicating the other man.
‘Stef Baturin, a friend of his, someone he used to work with years ago. We met him one Sunday afternoon for coffee. He lives somewhere in Oktabrsky… more than that I don’t know. Wait a minute. I might have his telephone number, I wrote it down… in my diary I think. He had just moved, and I was the only one with pen and paper at the time.’
The young woman rearranged her dressing gown.
‘Wait here,’ she said, and disappeared from the living room. She returned a few moments later with her handbag. From inside she pulled out a small diary and began leafing through it; recognising an entry, she paused.
‘Here you are. This is him, the man in the photo.’ She read out his telephone number. Ivan took it down.
‘And you think he lives in Oktabrsky district?’ he asked her again for confirmation. She nodded.
‘Look, here is my number. If you think of anything else, let me know… and thank you,’ Misha said sympathetically. For a moment he thought she might cry.
‘We need to find a phone box,’ Ivan said once back in the car. They found one after a couple of blocks. Ivan jumped out of the car. Misha checked his watch – three fifteen in the morning. Rodion lit another cigarette and took a long drag. Misha’s head had at last stopped throbbing. What he really needed now was a strong black coffee – not the best for concussion, he knew. Ivan climbed back into the car.
‘Thirty-three Fonarny pereulok, flat seventeen. It’s registered to a Stef Baturin, mechanic… no previous record for subversive activity,’ Ivan informed him for good measure.
They crossed the frozen Fontanka and followed the embankment. Five minutes later, they pulled up a couple of blocks down from Baturin’s apartment building.
Ignoring the lift, Misha took the stairwell with Ivan. At the third floor, bent over with his hands resting on his knees, Misha signalled Ivan to stop while he caught his breath. Seventeen was only two doors from the stairwell. This time they were going to be less polite.
Ivan handed Misha an automatic and released the safety catch on his own.
‘You remember how to use this?’ said Ivan, a faint smile on his lips.
Misha nodded. After two years in Afghanistan it felt almost second nature. He put his ear to the solid door. Inside he could hear muffled voices arguing in a panicky staccato. Ivan nodded at him. In unison they took one step back and rammed the door with their shoulders. Three hundred and eighty pounds of bone, flesh and muscle tore the inside lock from its fixture, snapping the door chain in two.
The two of them all but fell into the unlit apartment. Ivan found the light switch first as Misha darted into the living room… nothing. By the time he turned around, Ivan was already pushing a man, dressed in a scruffy T-shirt and boxer shorts, into the living room. He was Harkov’s friend from the photo.
‘So where’s your friend? We haven’t time to be nice,’ Ivan said threateningly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about? Who sent you?’ he said breathlessly.
‘The good guys.’ Ivan slapped him hard around the face. ‘Where is Harkov?’ Before he had time to respond, Baturin’s eyes gave the answer away.
‘The fire escape!’ shouted Ivan. ‘Move from here or make a call, you’re dead, is that clear?’ Ivan swept the side of his Markov across the top of Baturin’s head, knocking him to the floor.
The door to the fire escape from the living room was unlocked. Harkov could have only gone two ways: up or down. Misha shouted down to Rodion, and with Ivan right behind him he took the fire escape to the roof, covering the three short flights in less than twenty seconds. Unexpectedly, Misha discovered his second wind.
At first they didn’t see him. Misha and Ivan stood stock-still searching among the TV aerials and electrical service boxes that peppered the flat roof. Ivan waved his gun in the direction of a large water tank. Misha went one way and Ivan another. The sudden crunching of shoes on asphalt alerted them that Harkov had broken cover. He dashed from behind the tank and sprinted across the rooftop to a doorway giving onto the internal stairwell. Barely missing a step, Harkov disappeared into the building. He was faster than they would have credited and kept just one flight ahead as they hurtled towards the downstairs lobby.
At the third floor a figure stepped forward from an apartment doorway. A gun exploded. Misha dropped to one knee and shot Baturin in the chest. Ivan was already past him. He could hear him pounding down the stairs.
Jumping over Baturin’s lifeless body, Misha raced after Ivan and the echo of descending footsteps. The thud of a heavy door being shoved open and then a second told him he had escaped onto the street. Misha skidded into the entrance hall, ran past a dazed Rodion, prostrate on the hallway floor, and punched open the half-open plate glass door. East down Fonarny, Misha spotted Ivan in close pursuit of a clearly flagging Harkov.
Misha saw the flash of the car’s headlights first. A black Volga, its windows down, lurched from the kerb, U-turned and, fighting to find traction, slewed past him in the direction of the two runners. Ivan turned at the sound of spinning tyres and threw himself to the ground as the flash of two AK47s ruptured the night in an ear-splitting staccato. Harkov’s last expression was one of terror and disbelief. The gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had started. Misha stood there, frozen, staring at the receding taillights as they faded into the night.
‘Who was that?’ asked Ivan as Misha helped him to his feet. He looked over at the lifeless body of Harkov.
‘I’m not sure. Looked like one of Kostya’s cars. It was a private Leningrad plate. Can’t be many of those. I’ve memorised the number.’
Chapter 17
Two security guards watched Misha’s car draw up outside Konstantin’s club. It had just turned two in the afternoon. Misha had managed to get a few hours’ sleep at Malaya Morskaya while one of Ivan’s men traced down the car registration plate.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ said Ivan. ‘You know what he is like.’
Misha had to agree that turning up unannounced on Kostya’s doorstep was not necessarily the best plan, but he was not about to duck the fact that Ivan had tied the Harkov murder to one of Kostya’s cars and, by implication, to Sveta’s murder.
‘Just pretend we are at high school… with guns,’ he answered, climbing out.
‘Boris, Pyotr,’ Ivan addressed the guards as they pulled open the door for them and pointed to the back stairs.
Inside, more men, all armed, sat at empty tables; the club did not open for a few hours. One of them stepped in Misha’s way and told Ivan to wait before escorting Misha down the back stairs.
Konstantin was sitting on a sofa at the far end of the room. A dark-haired girl got up and walked past him and out of the door, her deep brown eyes momentarily holding his as she passed him.